Life is Difficult
by R.H. Stevenson
Summary: "This action will have consequences." You made your choice and now you have to live with it. But was it the right one? Will you ever know if it was the right one?
1. The Nightmare

"Don't EVER tell me what to do! I'm so SICK of people trying to control me!"

Cover your ears. Let the tears fall. Try not to make a sound.

"You are going to get into hella more trouble for this than drugs."

Let the storm rage within. Try not to think, to listen, to know.

"Nobody would even miss your punk ass, would they?"

You will.

"Get that gun away from me, psycho!"

*BANG*

Bite your tongue, clutch your head, don't reach out, don't feel, don't listen. Don't listen to Nathan freaking out, don't listen to David bursting in and tackling Nathan, don't listen to David break as he sees who it is on the floor, don't listen to the paramedics trying in vain to save the girl who never stood a chance, don't listen as the universe fades to white, giving you this hateful mercy of not having to live through what must happen next. 

Open your eyes to darkness. To warmth. To something heavy on you that you throw off in a panic, gasping and grasping for air, your mouth warm and wet and thick as you try to apologize but instead knock an alarm clock off a night stand. It thunks to the floor like the gun, like Chloe. A lamp, a light, and the slow recognition of the room around you: your bedroom.

"Max, are you- oh shit."

A voice; familiar, comforting, reassuring. A hand on your shoulder and a cloth pressed to your mouth, catching the trickle of blood from where you have bitten your lip and tongue. A hand presses the cloth into your hand and you hold it against your mouth as your surroundings continue to come into focus and you begin to remember who you are.

You are Max Caulfield. No, Max Graham. This is your bedroom, the one you share with your husband, Warren, in Seattle. The room is well-furnished, with framed posters and photographs on the walls and the tops of the dressers. One catches your eye: a framed polaroid shot of a blue butterfly perched on the rim of a pail. You want to break it, tear it, burn it.

Warren returns with the first aid kit. He tells you it doesn't look bad, more superficial than anything, then asks the question you know is coming: "The nightmare again?"

He doesn't have to ask which one. Though there are many, there is only one that leaves you with blood in your mouth. And on the wall this time too, it seems. The Dark Room, the hospital bed in the garage-room, Kate falling and rising and falling and rising, none of them are like this. Those at least allow you to scream, to clutch at the sheets, at Warren, let you go when you awake. Not this one. Not the bathroom. Not the sacrifice you swore you would never make and still did.

You nod. Words fail you for now. You know they will come back soon, they always do, and you will ask the same question you always do, and he will give you the same answer he always does, and you will still wonder and you will get up, go downstairs, and you will stand on the balcony and smoke a single cigarette while staring at the stars and trying yet again to figure out what could have been done differently.

"Did I make the right choice?" The ritual begins.

"I don't know, but you did what she asked you to and you saved a lot of lives, including mine." He answers.

So you get up and use the cloth in your hand to wipe at the blood on the wall until Warren gently takes it from you and says that he will take care of it. Then you nod mutely, walk around the bed and out into the hallway, down the stairs, and to the kitchen. There you dig the cigarettes out of the freezer, noting that there are only a couple left. Then you step out of the warm, silent cocoon of your house and on the balcony and the gentle noise of a suburban fall at a little past midnight.

The tobacco is stale and tastes like shit. They always taste like shit, but the last few have been truly awful. This one is no better and you choke on the smoke of the first drag. You can almost picture her laughing at you, though for your inability to smoke or your insistence on finishing her last pack in some twisted form of a memorial you don't know.

"If only you could be here to do either." You murmur, wincing at the stinging in your tongue and lip. Leaning against the railing you blow rancid smoke into the night sky, watching the wisps drift away and dissolve. It's almost half gone now. They burn quicker each time.

And so the ritual goes, except this time something different happens. Warm arms encircle your waist and pull you close. A chin rests on your shoulder and a face nuzzles your neck. You want to squirm away, but a voice inside tells you that this is okay, that it's alright for things to be different this time. That being alone isn't always the best choice.

"She was so alone." The words are out before you realize it. "She died alone, without knowing that anyone really cared. How could I do that to Chloe?"

There are no words in response but the arms around your waist squeeze a little tighter.

"I betrayed her. I betrayed my best friend and let her die alone on a bathroom floor." The words end as a sob. The cigarette trembles and threatens to fall.

"She wasn't alone. You were there, even if that Chloe didn't know it." Warren's voice is low and soft, as comforting as his arms. He hesitates, then continues. "I'd like to think she knows it now. That when she... died... that she knew how much you did care."

"You sound like Kate." The words are bitter but soft around the edges. You want to be able to believe the same thing. Because it might take away some of the guilt.

You can feel him wince at your tone and how you can feel him realizing just how much you don't want anyone out here with you. You want to protest or try again, but you don't. He gives you one last gentle squeeze and kisses the back of your head. "I'm going back to bed. Please don't stay out here too long." Then Warren lets go and the sliding door opens and closes, leaving you alone again with your thoughts.

But this time you don't wait for the cigarette to burn itself out. You don't know why exactly, but this time it's different. Something has changed and instead of waiting until you can no longer stand to be alone outside, you take one last drag on the cigarette and set it in the ash tray on the small glass balcony table before giving the stars one last look and heading inside.

Up the stairs you go, down the hallway, and into the bedroom where you climb silently under the sheets and cling to Warren, letting his arms surround you and help you start to drift off to sleep, unaware of the blue butterfly that has landed on the nearly-exhausted cigarette that was left behind. Its wings flex once, twice, and then it flies off into the night sky, chasing the last wisp released by the lonely, dying coal.


	2. Memories in the Rain

As usual, morning comes too soon. Your mouth still stings but gentle probing tells you that you haven't further injured yourself in the night. The dry taste of ash is both irritating and comforting and makes the smell of food wafting into the room even more appealing. Bacon. Eggs. Something... else. You can't place it, but it doesn't smell like breakfast. Or at least, not something that should be smelled at breakfast and for a minute you forget all about the past night as you try and determine with your nose if your husband is in the process of burning the house down.

At last curiosity and hunger are enough to rouse you fully. Off go the covers, on go the slippers and the fuzzy robe. Down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the kitchen you go.

Warren is making eggs, bacon, and is trying to dispose of an attempt at waffles. He hems and haws, running a hand through his hair as if to crank a good answer out of his head. "I, uh... The batter was, ah..." His cheeks puff as he blows out a long breath then grins that sheepish, adorable grin he has when he gets self-conscious or thinks he screwed up. "Yeah, that didn't work so well. Too much something, or maybe not enough something else. I'll try again."

He turns back to the counter but you catch his arm and gently spin him back. "I love it," you say, smiling and giving his cheek a soft kiss. Your arms go around his waist and pull him to you. "And thank you. For last night and for this. It smells delicious."

His arms envelope you and hold you close. Closing your eyes, you breathe him in and rest for an all-too-brief moment you can forget about the nightmare and simply be a woman in the arms of her doting husband. If only this moment could last forever.

Your hand twitches and your head begins to ache. You must have tensed or recoiled because Warren hugs you close and starts whispering that it will be okay, that he's got you, and he won't let anything happen to his Super Max. Very reluctantly pulling away, you explain that it's just your head and that you'll be okay, it was just a rough night.

He doesn't push and instead begins to empty the stovetop of food. You set the table and wait for breakfast to begin. It is just as delicious as it smelled and conversation soon turns to the rest of the day. Warren should be at school for a lab session this afternoon. Something with math and computer models that sounds quite impressive, even if you can't understand most of it. He does, and that's what's important.

You talk about the photo shoot this afternoon in the park and how it's most likely going to get rained out like the last two have been. Kate liked the pictures of the kids playing in the rain, but it just wasn't quite what she was looking for in her book. Another rain cancellation and you might just have to settle for some indoor shots. It pains you to consider sacrificing the original vision, but you're Max Graham: professional photographer, and you have a reputation to uphold.

"Oh, what time is the gallery thing?" Warren asks as he finishes the last of his food.

"It starts at seven, but we don't have to be there until eight."

"Trying to avoid the art snobs?"

You can't help but smile at the way he says it and decide to try to make a joke of it. If you can laugh at something this morning, then maybe the rest of the day won't feel quite so heavy. So you roll your eyes and sigh dramatically. "Pretentious art snobs. Ugh."

"Says the self-proclaimed hipster who swears by the instant polaroid." Warren retorts with a wink.

Trying to stifle a laugh, you glare at the man as best you can. "I know where you sleep, Warren Graham."

He waggles his eyebrows and picks up his glass, holding it like it's filled with something stronger than orange juice. "I'm counting on it, Maxine Graham." His voice oozes with lounge lizard charm.

That breaks it and soon the kitchen is filled with laughter for a good, long time. As it finally begins to settle down, you wipe a tear from your eye and look across the table at the man who at one point thought "let's go ape" was a good line, but has never failed to be there and support you in this and every other timeline. Through the last few shudders of laughter you shake your head and ask softly, "what am I going to do with you?"

Warren shrugs and his grin fades into a warm and slightly embarrassed smile. "I don't know. I'd ask you to marry me, but I don't think they let you get double married around here."

Before he can get caught in that train of thought you stand and walk around the table to put your arms around his shoulders and plant a kiss on the top of his head. "Maybe not. But if you promise to dress nice, I'll let you escort me to the show tonight."

"It's a deal." You can't see his smile, but you can feel it through the hands he places on your arms. Demons may come in the night, the past may haunt, but here is love enough to hold them at bay. Even so, you think about the picture on the dresser and tiny bit of guilt sneaks in.

A couple hours later Warren is driving to school and you are driving to the park. This was supposed to be a rare sunny day in October, but there are more and more clouds in the sky and you're beginning to think that rain is inevitable. If there is one thing that you've never gotten to like in Seattle, it's the weather. Once Warren finishes his degree, maybe the two of you can move down to California or New York, or anywhere that doesn't spend most of the year framed in grey.

The park is nearly empty as you pull into the parking lot and begin to get ready for the shoot. To your surprise the rain holds off for another hour and a half, giving you the chance to get most of the shots you were looking for. Margaret and the kids are wonderful to work with as always. Kate is going to love the pictures, you're sure of it.

As you finish putting your camera away the wind picks up and rain begins to sweep in across the lake. Inspiration strikes you suddenly at the sight and you grab the old, white, plastic camera tucked to the side of the expensive digital equipment and run towards the lakeside. The rain line is a hundred yards out and rushing in as you reach the scattered metal fins and line up the first shot.

SNAP

The picture pops out of the front of the camera and you tuck it into your jacket before turning and holding out the camera. The first drop hits your hand as you take the selfie of you next to the dark metal with the trees and rain in the background.

SNAP

There's a smile in your eyes that threatens to sneak into the rest of your face in the photo that you tuck in with the other one before you run back to the car, shielding the camera. The rain isn't hard, but you don't want to risk the camera. It's too full of memories.

Once the camera is safely back in your car, you turn to look at the lake. It looks so peaceful and calm, and the rain has transformed it in that intangible way that a gentle fall rain does, adding mystery and ethereal beauty to the scene. So up goes the hood and out you go back into the park. Even if you don't like the weather you can still enjoy the softness it brings every now and then. So very different from the pelting, driving, angry rain that haunts your dreams from time to time, flung at you by a storm that looks like it could eat the world. The storm that never was because of the sacrifice of one person. Now you're glad it's raining, because now the water on your face hides the tears.

It's been almost five years since that day. Next week you'll be going down to Arcadia Bay to see Joyce and David… and Chloe. In your mind's eye it's that golden evening in the cemetery and you stand next to the coffin of your best friend and watch that blue butterfly land and for a moment it feels like she's there beside you. But the moment passes and you watch mutely as the box is lowered into the ground while Joyce weeps and David tries to comfort her.

And then life continued for the rest of you. A lot of parents wanted to pull their children out of Blackwell and many did for the rest of that semester. Classes resumed, though it was some time until a replacement photography teacher could be found. The petty high school bullshit came creeping back in on the fringes as people tried to forget about the immediacy of the tragedy that had occurred. The trials of Nathan Prescott and Mark Jefferson dominated the local news, though you tried to avoid as much of it as possible. That Sean Prescott ended up quietly pulling out of most of his real estate plans for the town was the only upside to how public everything was.

That final semester at Blackwell hard for you, though there were some comforts. Brooke and Warren had gotten together and split up over the holiday season and in late January you and Warren started dating. It was hard to not confide in him what had happened to you over that week in October, but after the way the state-sponsored therapist had reacted when you finally opened up and told them the whole story you didn't want to run the risk of losing him to some crazy story. Yes, he had believed you in one timeline, but that was when you were both staring an otherworldly storm in the face.

Kate, of course, was just as much a comfort to you as you were to her over the course of that semester. Somehow, she seemed to know that you had gone through more than you let on but never pushed or prodded to try and uncover it all although at times you wish she had. But she was there and she was a friend.

The biggest surprise had been Victoria. She was devastated by the trial and the revelations that came out of it, especially when it finally came out that her name had been next on Jefferson's list. It wasn't quite the transformation of Ebenezer Scrooge, but it was enough that you two eventually left the Blackwell on civil terms and that she and Kate had become friends.

And on it goes. Moving back to Seattle to live with your parents and start your photography career while Warren went to the University of Washington. Marrying him in the summer two years ago, and finally sharing the story of that October week with him, and the relief you felt when he believed you. And now you're here, standing by a lake in the rain next to a metal whale fin, watching these memories pass by in the falling water. Life has been strange. Life has been beautiful. Life has been difficult. But it is life: your life.

A sharp shiver runs through you as you realize that you've been standing out here for far too long and are soaked to the bone. You need to get home and start getting ready for the gallery show tonight. An exhibition of local artists and your work, most of it from Kate's books, has been selected as the showcase. It wasn't how you had planned to get recognized, but the books have been very popular.

Back in your car you see that you have a few new texts. A couple from your parents wishing you luck tonight, some from Warren complaining about how boring these simulations are, with pictures of numbers on a computer screen included and a few thoughts on how he'd like to help you celebrate your big night later that leave you blushing and reaching for the A/C knob. And then there's one you didn't expect to see.

It's from Kate and it reads: "Hey Max! Guess who's going to be at your big show tonight? ME! I wanted to keep it a secret but just couldn't help myself. I'll see you tonight! xoxoxo"

Now you're actually excited to be going tonight. It's been ages since you've seen Kate in person and the photos on display are just as much because of her. You'll have to give her a call once you get home and warmed up. This will be a night to remember.


	3. Photos and Friends

It's 6:30 and Warren still isn't home. It looks like you will be late to the gallery show tonight. You can't be too cross with him, after all you did say at breakfast that you were okay not showing up until eight. That was before you knew Kate would be there and now you can hardly wait to show up. She sounded so happy on the phone earlier. So unlike the time that never happened on the dorm roof.

You close your eyes tight against the memories that flood unbidden into your mind, focusing instead on what everyone else knows happened: Kate vindicated and actually befriending the ones who tormented her. Turned out Victoria and her hangers-on could actually be real human beings when they felt like it. Anger at how stupid and insensitive some people can be wells up, displacing some of the sadness. That's good. Anger is easier to focus than sadness.

The reflection in the full-length mirror stares back at you with stormy blue, conflicted eyes. You study the reflection, focusing on it to distract yourself from the unwanted emotions and thoughts. The freckles. The chestnut hair that spills over your shoulders in brown waves. The flowing maroon dress that you've been waiting for an excuse to wear, that you just can't wait to show off to Kate. The three bullets hanging from a black cord around your neck. The metal-studded leather bracelet. Once again the sadness threatens to come back, but you tell yourself why you wear them on occasions like this.

"Because she made this all possible."

At that thought, you twist around and pull your hair to the side to look at the blue butterfly that is forever perched between your shoulder blades.

"So you'll always have my back."

Downstairs the front door opens and closes. Warren's home. So down the stairs you go and see him waiting for you with a self-satisfied smile and a hand behind his back. You pretend not to notice the hand and kiss him delightedly when he brings out the flowers. Roses and carnations of a red to match your dress. You kiss him again.

"They're beautiful, Warren, but you didn't have to."

He smiles. "I wanted to do something special for your big evening, Max."

You hold up the flowers and inhale deeply of their sweet scent. He really does know how to make your day better. "I'll take care of these. You go upstairs and get ready; everything's hanging in the bathroom for you."

"What would I do without, Super Max?" Warren gives you a quick kiss and heads up the stairs.

"Probably be very sad and lonely and play too many video games." You call after him while smelling the flowers again.

"I'm pretty sure there's no such thing!" His voice comes from around the corner upstairs, then he pokes his head around the corner and looks down at you. "But I'm glad you've saved me from ever having to find out." 

Fifteen minutes later you're sitting in the passenger's seat of his car as Warren navigates evening traffic in the suburban sprawl. He looks very handsome in his red shirt and black pants and tie, though with his hair still in the trademarked student shag you can't help but smirk at the memory of his attempt to dress up for the Blackwell prom. That and the way he yet again grumbled about having to be a redshirt for the night.

"So how's Kate?"

"She's good. Happy. Said her publisher's talking about including Canada in the next book tour."

"Way to go, Kate. That girl's been really knocking them out of the park. I'm glad things are going so well."

"Yeah, I'm glad things ended up this way." You say and look out the window with a smile, ignoring the images that pass before your mind's eye. Kate is safe, Kate is happy, Kate is successful. That's what matters. You are too, and that's what matters also.

Your gaze drifts across the windshield to rest on Warren. The light of the dashboard provides a steady base for the shifting patterns of streetlights and headlights that play across his gentle features. His lips are softly pursed and his brow shows a slight furrow. He knows what goes through your head and you know it worries him and that it also bothers him that he can never truly understand these shared experiences that only you have lived. You reach over and rest a hand on his leg. "It's okay, Warren. Everything's okay."

His features relax some. "Did you ever tell her?"

"God, no. How do you even start that conversation? 'Oh hey, Kate, so I watched you jump off the dorm six times before I managed to freeze time and talk you down.' Yeah, that would go great."

"You told me."

He's right. You did tell him. But it's different with him, and you say as much.

"How is it different?"

"Well, first of all I married you. Second of all, you didn't try to kill yourself. And third, it's just... why? Why should I talk about that with Kate? It's not like it makes a difference."

"You never know."

You want to give a witty comeback. Or even just argue. But you can't because he's right. You don't know how Kate would respond. It's why you never said anything in the first place. Better to pretend that nothing but what everyone knows happened that week happened. Besides, time travel, altering destiny, how would that even work with all the God stuff? You've seen the aftermath of one crisis of faith, what could happen if she has another one, especially one you caused? Not to mention you don't even know if your power still works, so you can't rely on being able to rewind your way out of it if she does take it badly.

No. Best to just keep things as they are. A shared secret that only you, Warren, and your journal know about.

The rest of the drive is quiet save for the noise of the car and the rain. 

It is bright and cheery in the gallery tonight. Dozens of people mingle throughout the space, eating, drinking, and keeping the dull thrum of conversation just loud enough to mask the air vents. Warren seems intent on single-handedly eradicating the local mini quiche population. So far you've managed to get a pair of tiny cucumber sandwiches down and are currently nursing a glass of wine with an uncharacteristically absent enthusiasm. The wine is good, it just doesn't sit right this evening.

A series of three statues catches your attention. It's a series of three vaguely flat human shapes in progressive stages of a strange walk. For some reason it seems familiar. You walk closer to the sculptures, vaguely listening to the man who is describing the piece. He's trying to explain the meaning of the piece to the woman standing next to him and sounds like he's reciting from an article. The piece stubbornly refuses to give up its secrets.

You hear the words "representative of the nonconformist zeitgeist" and it clicks: this is the sculpture from the lower level of the Zeitgeist Gallery in Los Angeles. The back of your head begins to ache even as you smile at the memory. It was a good day up until the call from Chloe. However, your thoughts are interrupted as you spy a familiar poof of brown hair heading toward the black curtains that are blocking the stairs to the second floor.

"Kate!" You call out, garnering more than a few sidelong glances, and weave your way between paintings, people, and pottery to intercept her.

"Kate!" You call out again, quieter this time. She hears you this time and turns around.

"Max!" Kate says, beaming, and hugs you. You hug her back, making sure that none of your wine escapes onto her shirt.

"It's so good to see you." She says as the hug ends. "I know it's only been a few months, but it feels like forever. Isn't this so exciting? Your work featured in a gallery!"

Biting back the first answer that comes to mind, you smile and take a sip of the wine that's not so awful this time. "It feels good. But your name should be up there too. I never would have taken most of those photos if it wasn't for your books."

Kate laughs and shakes her head. "Oh, Max, stop being so modest. You're a great photographer and if it wasn't these pictures it'd be other ones. You really do have an amazing gift."

"I'm glad you see that, because sometimes I don't. I'll look at a shot I've taken and just see all the ways I could have done it better."

"That's just because artists have no sense of perspective on their own works. Believe me, I know. I'm still scribbling down revisions even as things are getting printed. In fact-"

Whatever she was about to say is lost as Warren arrives. "Hey, Kate, you made it. How's the book biz?"

"Better than I could have ever expected. How're you, Warren?"

"Oh, you know, classes, movies, and loving my lady." He slides his arm around you, winking at you, and you can feel the blush rise. You hide it behind another sip of your wine as Warren holds his plate out to Kate. "Want one?"

Kate considers for a moment then nods. "Sure. They look good."

"They are great. Need to find out where they get them." Warren says.

"WalMart, probably." You chime in while snagging one of the little pastries from his plate. Chewing thoughtfully, you consider what Warren said on the drive over. _No_ , you decide firmly, _I can't do that to Kate. She's been through enough and I just can't take her back there. I need to let her be happy._

Warren looks down at his plate and seems to be mulling over the possibility. Then he shrugs and lets you go in order to pop one into his mouth. "Well, if they are, they're using the bake directions. Have to look next time I go shopping. These little guys are awesome" He says around the mouthful.

You and Kate share a look and a silent conversation. Her eyebrows ask "is he being serious?" Your shrug and smile say "he is, and it's part of why I love him."

He, of course, is too focused on his food to notice. So you take the reigns of the conversation. "So I think I can get us in to see the display before they open it up at eight. Want a short private tour?"

She lights up. "That would be great!" 

The curator, Jeff, is happy to let the three of you duck behind the curtain and head upstairs. "I only wish I had known ahead of time that you would be here, Miss Marsh. My daughters adore your books. Cee has read _The Lighthouse Club_ probably a hundred times now and is always telling me how she wants to be like Alice." He says, leading you all up the stairs and across the floor of the tall, white room filled more pieces like those below, towards the back of the room where your photographs hang on a series of partition walls.

"I'm glad. The world needs more people like Alice in it. Too many people forget what simple kindness can do." Kate says.

"Oh, I know. Kids can be such savage little bastards sometimes." Jeff says, clearly thinking about something.

Kate smiles reassuringly. "I wouldn't use those words, but yes, people can be very mean and cruel sometimes. I just hope my books can help inspire people to not be that way, or to help anyone who is being bullied."

"Well, they're certainly helping my girls. So thank you for writing them. And thank you for helping to bring them to life." The last part is said to you as Jeff turns and keeps leading you all back to the display. Once you arrive, he lets you know that it's not going to be very long until they'll let everyone else up. You thank him for giving you the opportunity to have this time here.

It's a small showcase, only about a dozen large pictures on the partitions and another dozen smaller ones clustered around the "About the Artist" plaque, and most of them from _A Day at the Beach_. Some children and their parents on the beach below the Arcadia Bay lighthouse. You picked the happy ones for this show. The ones of the kids playing in the sand and the surf, framed by the golden sunset. The one of a family eating at the picnic table. You, Kate, and Warren walk through the display, talking about the pictures, where they were shot, how, and what a wonderful day it had been. It was the only shoot that Kate had actually been to.

You stop in front of the photo of two kids running across the parking lot at the beach. It's supposed to be Alice and Michael racing to join their parents for lunch. The innocent joy in their faces never fails to make you smile and remember the happy times you used to have on that beach. But today, with the memory of the nightmare still so fresh in your mind, there's a strong streak of sadness there. You wish Chloe could be here to see the pictures of the children she saved, playing on the beach she saved, the town she saved far in the background.

"That's hers, isn't it?" Kate's voice, soft and warm, breaks you out of your thoughts.

"What?" You ask, not sure what she's referring to.

"The necklace."

Then you notice that you're clutching the bullet pendants in your hand and staring at the picture of the kids running, a few tears running down your cheek. You let it go abruptly, feeling the weight of the metal against your chest and the ghost of the bullets on your palm.

Warren's arms encircle you from behind and you feel him kissing the back of your head and then resting his chin on your shoulder. He says nothing, but he doesn't have to. He hasn't had to for a long time now. His touch and presence alone is enough to warm you and make you feel safe.

"Yeah, sorry." You say and try to smile, to pretend like everything's okay. "I'm fine, it's nothing, just remembering."

Kate's hand is warm on your shoulder. "It's okay, Max. She was your friend. It's okay to miss her."

There's a hot flash of anger at yourself for being so stupid as to cry and distract everyone from what's supposed to be a happy occasion and you worm your way out of Warren's embrace. Then the anger turns towards Nathan and Jefferson, those two 'savage little bastards' as Jeff had said. It's their fault that Chloe can't be here with the rest of you. Nathan's fault because he killed her and Rachel, and Jefferson's because without him, Nathan would have just been another asshole from a shitty family, not a murderer.

"Max, it's okay. We're here." You're not sure who says it, but you know that both of them follow you as you turn from the picture and walk away, almost into the wall with your name on it. In the scattered photographs surrounding your name you see one that immediately shocks you out of all the anger, all the sadness, all the pain: one of your first digital manipulation experiments from that last semester at Blackwell. A pair of bright blue butterfly wings superimposed over a distance shot of the Arcadia Bay lighthouse, turning the white beacon into the body.

Walls you didn't even know you had put up in your heart and mind come crashing down and you turn to look at Kate and Warren, expressions of loving concern on their faces. You wipe the tears from your eyes and look from Kate to Warren and back again. Then you sigh, look to the ground to gather your strength for what you know you have to do, then look back up at Kate and say, "Kate, there's something I need to tell you about that week."


	4. Self-Reflection

Kate looks concerned and confused. "What do you mean, Max?" She asks, hand involuntarily going for the cross around her neck.

"It's... It's complicated. Like, really complicated. Something I thought I didn't need to talk about before. But now..." You glance at Warren, who looks apprehensively at you and mouths 'Now? Really?' Your mouth opens and closes a few times but none of the words that are swirling around in your head want to come out.

Kate glances at Warren and rocks on her heels. She's clearly uncomfortable. Why wouldn't she be? It was an awful week and it occurs to you that she really doesn't want to think about it or be reminded of it. And here you are about to make it so much worse. Really, what are you thinking? You can feel the floor drop beneath you and that internal spiral start down into the dark corners of your mind. Thankfully you're interrupted by a new voice.

"So how does it feel to be put in the back corner? This is real prime placement you have here." You can practically hear the sarcasm splashing on the floor as it drips off of Victoria's words. Another unexpected visitor. But still, one you are glad to see.

"Victoria, I-" You begin, turning toward her with a smile starting to form, grateful for the interruption. She's standing by one of the photo uprights as impeccably dressed as ever and with her trademark smirk that turns into a horrified expression. She starts forward and rummages through her purse, pulling out some tissues and interrupting you again.

"Oh god, Max, I'm sorry. I was just kidding, I didn't mean... Oh, I am such an idiot." Victoria starts rambling and it's not until she begins to blot at the tears on your cheeks that you remember you had been crying. "Are you okay? I didn't-"

"It's okay, I'm just overwhelmed by it all." You smile and try to wave her away. "It's been an emotional week."

She gives you her 'I totally don't believe you' look before rolling her eyes and sighing. "Okay, if you say so. But just so you know, I'm actually really happy for you. This is kind of a big deal." Victoria presses the tissues into your hands.

"Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you, Victoria." You reply, taking the tissues and trying to gently finish drying your face. In your mind's eye there flashes the image of Victoria lying bound next to your chair in the Dark Room and you can hear her crying. Just as quickly you shove it aside.

Kate steps in then. "Vic, you didn't tell me you were going to be here too."

"It was a last-minute thing. My evening opened up so I thought, what they hey, let's go see Max's little show." Victoria gives the area a cursory look and nods. "I like what I see so far."

Other people are starting to filter into the second floor of the gallery, bringing the low hum of conversation with them. You do not want them to see you all tear-stained. It doesn't look good for an artist to have a breakdown in her own exhibit. "Hey, I'll be back in a little bit. Warren, could you get me some more wine? I don't know where my glass got to."

"The red, right?" He asks, then gives you a smile before leaving once you nod.

"Are you going to be okay?" Kate asks. "Do you need me to-"

"No, I'll be okay. Just need a couple minutes." You smile and leave to find the bathroom.

 _"Okay, Max, you need to chill out. You're seriously starting to act like a crazy lady."_ The bathroom is empty and quiet. You splash some water on your face and for half a moment expect to see graffiti on the mirror when you look up. _"Pull yourself together, go back out there and have a good time with Warren and your friends. And don't even think of telling Kate anything. She doesn't need to know."_

The words sound good but hollow in your head. You glare at yourself as you dry your face and fix the damage to your mascara. In your mind you can picture Chloe leaning against the other sink, arms crossed and looking somewhere been amused and pissed off. "Aww, is Max Caufield having a bad day?"

"Graham." You say aloud without thinking. "Not Caulfield. And you're not here."

"No, I'm not." Mind-Chloe says. "I'm in a box, in the ground, in the Arcadia Bay Cemetery. William says hi, by the way."

"Oh fuck off." The words are out of your mouth before you realize it. You stare pointedly at the mirror, at your own face instead of where she is in your mind's eye. It doesn't help. The little camera in your head keeps itself focused on Chloe.

"You're the one imagining I'm here, sistah. Gotta say, never thought I'd see the day when Super Max would run away from her friends. Oh right, except that's what happens every time you go off to Seattle, isn't it?" Mind-Chloe smirks. "Good to know it's not just me."

You reach for your purse again and dig through it, trying to find something to distract yourself with, trying not to think about the girl in your mind that just won't leave. Except that she, well, you, won't leave you alone. The imaginary whistling is sharp and annoying. You glare at yourself in the mirror. "What?"

"Yeah, uh, can we just skip all the not-facing-this bullshit and cut about twenty minutes off this little reunion? Jesus, Max, you told Mark Fuckerson to eat shit and die while taped to a chair in that creepy-ass dungeon and you can't talk to your imaginary best friend? What happened to you, girl?"

What you think is: _"I killed my best friend after making sure that the only thing she would remember of me was that I abandoned her for five years."_

What you say is: "Nothing."

Mind-Chloe taps the side of her head and looks very disappointed. "I'm in your head, Max, I can hear it all. I've got the superpowers this time."

"You tell me." You growl at the sink.

"Maybe you're ready to start actually dealing with this instead of hiding behind guilt and dreams and smoking my old cigarettes? Which, by the way, is hella psychotic. I mean, really, Max, the fuck is up with that?"

Cheeks burning, you refuse to answer. It's not like you haven't asked yourself the same question before. Even Warren has asked that question. You've never answered him either, but you do know what the answer is. You just refuse to say it out loud, and so you stay silent and stare into the sink.

"The better question," mind-Chloe says as you picture her pacing back and forth across the bathroom, "is why you keep that picture framed and on top of your dresser. Do you like torturing yourself with that memory every day, or is it some kind of fucked-up 'get out of jail free' card for the day you either figure out some magic third option or decide you can actually live with blowing away a whole town?"

"Fuck off."

"Would love to. Can't. I'm just your imagination at work, Mighty Max, so you have to pull the plug on me. Again."

That last word cuts like a red-hot knife. Again. Maybe you really do just want to torture yourself. It's certainly the easier choice. The first tears that hit the bowl are clear, but soon the falling drops are tinged grey with the remains of your earlier touchup. Off to the side the door opens and you hear Victoria's voice.

"Max? Are you okay? You've been gone a long- Oh, Max…" Her shoes click on the floor and a hand is on your shoulder moments later. "Hey, it's okay. It's going to be okay, you hear me?"

You don't answer. Your eyes are screwed up tight and you are trying desperately to stop the shaking as you choke back an audible sob. "It's… I'm…"

She cuts you off, voice as firm as you've ever heard it. "Max Graham, don't you dare tell me you're okay. This is supposed to be a big night for you and here you are, crying your eyes out in the bathroom. What gives?"

How are you supposed to tell her why you're crying? That you can feel the weight of a morphine injector and a photograph in your hands and it feels like the weight of an entire world. That you've been arguing with an imaginary version of your dead best friend. Since you can't go with 'the Truth' you settle on 'true': "I'll be okay, really. It's just been a rough day. Realized this morning that it's been almost five years since... since that day. It hit me harder than I thought it would."

Victoria's expression cools rapidly. "Yeah." She says and glances at the mirror. "Well, I'm officially done with this event now. How about we blow this place and start the afterparty early? Bar at the corner looks good."

"Sure." You say. "I'll be out in a minute."

"Don't keep me waiting, Max." With that admonishment and another glance in the mirror, Victoria leaves.

Once again you dry your face and try to fix the damage that your tears have done. It's harder this time. You just can't seem to focus on what you're doing. Every time you manage to focus on your eyes, you feel eyes watching you and you look away, expecting to see a different face staring back at you with accusing eyes. But every time it's just your own blue eyes: tired, stormy blue eyes.

They're waiting for you by the picture of the kids running across the parking lot, standing away from the trickle of people that are walking by and looking at the pictures. Warren turns from the conversation he's having with Kate to smile and offer you the wine he's holding. You accept it gratefully and take a sip. Victoria looks impatient, like she's going to just take off any second now for the exit. Kate smiles at you and brushes an errant hair back behind her ear. She's the first one to speak. "Everything okay?"

You put on a brave face and decide to be honest with her. "Not right now, but I will be. A lot of unpleasant memories this time of year that's the pictures aren't helping. Do, uh, you mind if we leave, at least for right now?"

Victoria's expression doesn't change, but Warren's and Kate's do as they understand what you mean. Warren comes to your side and puts an arm around your waist, leaning in to kiss the side of your head. It's a comfortable, safe gesture, and one that you greatly appreciate. You lean into him, chasing after that feeling, wanting to wrap it around you like a blanket.

"There's a bar on the corner we could go to." Victoria volunteers and looks to Kate. "This isn't really a good place to catch up in."

Kate seems unsure, but her smile is only gone for a moment before she nods. "Yes, let's do that. We can come back later."

Jeff is concerned at first when you let him know that you're going to be leaving early, but is easily placated by an explanation that you're just not feeling quite right tonight and by a promise that both you and Kate will come back tomorrow to help make a few changes to the display. Beyond that he continues, "You simply have to do an independent show here. The Carmichael Collection leaves in six weeks and there's nothing scheduled yet to take its place. If you can get me thirty pictures for review by the end of the month, I think we can make something happen."

You promise to think about it and Warren makes a note on his phone to remind you later. As you leave the building he kisses your head again and says, "You're moving on up, babe. When do you think the National Gallery's gonna call?"

"Oh please." You say, rolling your eyes at him. Secretly though, you are excited. This isn't a very big or prestigious gallery, but it's a start. So as you walk down the sidewalk with your husband and friends, the sad darkness that has filled your mind lightens a little and you can almost enjoy the rain that continues to fall on the city.


End file.
